


Never trust the obvious

by rodrinkstea



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Torture, personal headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 21:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6301804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodrinkstea/pseuds/rodrinkstea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were things even Maedhros could not endure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never trust the obvious

Fingon quietly sat beside him. He didn’t hear his cousin approach. Despite desperately wanting to see him, Maedhros still moved away. Something felt wrong. A voice, so familiar yet unheard before, kept telling him that everything was a lie. He had to be wary.

His cousin sighed, heavy curls hiding his beautiful face.

“You’ve been acting weird lately”, - he said finally. “What’s wrong?” Fingon looked up and Maedhros felt an urge to meet his gaze. Bright blue eyes were lit with concern and he was looking so… scared. Of what? What could he possibly know? Something was wrong.

This place looked so familiar. The soft light of Laurelin was fading slowly, and the sky was clear. His cousin’s face looked so unreal, so stunningly beautiful in the pale golden light, that Maedhros wanted to touch him. A sudden memory flashed in his mind, about fire and pain and dyng so many times, and mad eyes burning with hate, lips curved in a terrible grin, lovely voice repeating that he is a liar who doesn’t even deserve death. It was another nightmare.

“Why do you keep coming?”, - Maedhros asked hoarsely. “You don’t know what I’m going through. And you’re not making it better. Go away, please. Leave me alone. Or…” – a wild thought crossed his mind. “Or give me peace. I don’t want this to last anymore”

Fingon looked away. Fear of what was to happen settled in Maedhros’ stomach. Don’t believe anything you see. The words are a lie. The pain is a lie. Don’t trust the obvious. This dream is a lie.

“Except that it isn’t”, - his cousin said at last, looking back at him, a strange smile on his lips. “It isn’t. It’s all real, and you brought it on yourself, you stubborn fool. I wonder why YOU keep coming back here, repeating the same thing over and over? Do you think that you can help me by feeling guilty? Or, maybe, you think it would help yourself? Oh, no. I cannot leave you, because you don’t want to let me go. And I cannot give you peace as you ask. But I can give you this”

His hand reached out to touch Maitimo’s face. Fingon’s fingers traced his cheek in a light caress. The touch was burning, and his flesh was falling from his bones, and Fingon’s smile was wide and terrifying, as the gentle hands were changed by sharp fangs that were tearing his body and spilling his innards on the filthy ground, where they were just food for endless worms and squeaking larvae. A strong hand held his throat, and crashed it, he felt blood filling his mouth, and pus spilling from open wounds, and the agony, and fire, and his lover’s eyes were lit with hate as he repeated “Liar” all over until darkness finally took him…

… And he woke up on the floor to his cell, face wet from tears, ragged clothes sticky with blood, all his body aching and burning from the day before.

 ***

Waking up became comforting. Seeing his tiny cell, feeling the cold stone floor underneath, and the bowl with something so unappetizing, that he threw up after almost every meal. It all was comforting. It was real. Soon the Orc will come and drag him into the torture chamber to “have some fun”. He could endure that. His body could. He learned to shield his mind from tortures. Sometimes he was lucky to pass out in the middle of the beating.

He could endure the tortures. Beating, whipping, branding, anything Morgoth's servants could think of. But when night came, thick vapour with a sickening sweet smell filled his cell. This fog made him sleep, and he always had those terrible vivid nightmares. Always the same. He was sitting alone in the garden, looking at the beautiful sky, and Fingon came to him. He begged him to leave or to end his suffering. But Fingon only hurt him more. With words that were a reflection of his thoughts. Or with touches that were memories of his tortures, but felt worse.

 ***

 Cold wind was hitting his naked body as a lash. His mind was fogged, but he was trying to keep himself awake. He could not endure much longer. Pain in his right hand was unbearable, focusing on it helped a bit. He wanted to die, but he still was clinging to those pathetic remnants of life. Maedhros tried to look up at his hand. It looked beyond terrible. Swollen and black, it looked like it was decaying while he was still alive. It was. He remembered his father’s lectures on medicine, but he had never heard of something like that. There was no decay in Valinor. No frost. No hanging from a cliff. Yet there it was, his hand, dying, and its smell made Maedhros sick.

He wanted to die. He wanted to live. He couldn’t endure much longer.

 ***

 The wind was howling and suddenly it brought a song. The one he used to know, yet more beautiful than anything he had ever heard. He must have been dreaming. He joined the voice, singing weakly into the cold emptiness, and it made him feel the warmth of home long forgotten. He heard someone call him, and saw a shape, so painfully familiar, so dear and so dreaded. But it is different this time, he told himself, and a weak hope has settled in his mind. He begged his cousin to end his suffering and give him peace. And, to his happiness, Fingon raised his bow and strung an arrow, aiming at him. Maedhros closed his eyes in relief. But the arrow didn’t come. Maedhros looked up and saw that Fingon’s face was now so close to his own. The elf was trying to free him, his every move causing more pain to his damaged hand, and he screamed, thinking that it was another nightmare, longer and worse than the ones he had had before. Tears ran down his face, and he begged his cousin, his beloved to kill him, to finally end his suffering. But Fingon never listened. He drew his sword and it was pain again, and agony, and sound of crashing bones, and darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's my first fic in this fandom, and the first one I actually finished, or didn't delete, or whatever. This idea came to me spontaneously and quickly grew into a very detailed picture. It actually looked scaarier in my head.  
> I don't think Noldorin medicine was very advanced, tbh. They weren't getting sick in Valinor, I suppose. But the elves might have had some basic knowledge of anatomy and how to treat simple trauma (kids were running and falling after all). But they had no way of knowing about frostbite or gangrene. I wonder how Maitimo survived THAT long. Probably with ultra-strong elven immunity. But even that could not help him in the end. I've got some thoughts about his recovery after the whole Thangorodrim thing, but I don't know whether I should write it or leave in my mind palace. My writing style isn't that good. 
> 
> Title for this fic is taken from a song by Sopor Aeternus.


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